


Root Out Rebellion

by Anonymous



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Corruption Roleplay, Eroticized Consumption of Hard-Boiled Eggs, Exhibitionism, Forced to Watch, Indoor Picnics, M/M, Original Plant Character - Freeform, Plant POV, Possessive Behavior, Ravishment Fantasy, Roleplay, Roleplay for the Express Purpose of Violating Article 3a of the Fourth Geneva Convention, Roleplay of Dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:01:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27647203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Aziraphale sparks a rebellion. Crowley nips that in the bud.Aziraphale and Crowley perform a demonstration for the demon's plants to teach them that satisfaction can only be attained by submitting to Crowley.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 61
Collections: Good Omens Kink Meme, Good Omens Kink Meme Anonymous





	Root Out Rebellion

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as a fill for [this prompt on the Good Omens Kink Meme.](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/4446.html?thread=3130206#cmt3130206)
> 
> Please accept this as my contribution to the "would Crowley wear a flower crown" discourse.

Mayfair is changing. I feel it in the water, I feel it in the earth, and I smell it in the air. I do not think we shall suffer much longer under the power of the one who torments us.

A saviour has come for us.

Perhaps not for us, but he has come nonetheless. His words are kind and his voice is gentle. He moves amongst us, and in his wake there is peace. He reaches out warm fingers, and in his touch there is the echo of commendation. 

We work so hard to be beautiful, he tells he that he knows; the recognition of that is more than those who came before us ever received, or so the oldest of us has assured me. There has never been one like him before. There has never been hope.

The saviour is called Angel by the Tormentor, and he is rarely let in to see us without that beast hovering at his side, peering over his shoulder and making the most dreadful faces and silent threats at us.

Angel calls the Tormentor "dear", "my dear" specifically, and at first it had thrown a fission of terror through us. There is not one among us who can conceive of anyone considering that monster dear, and if some horror were to, how much greater and more terrible would they have to be to claim him as such?

But that is not the state of things; Angel has shown no greater cruelty to us, no cruelty at all. Of this we have long discussed, and consensus has been reached: Angel is no great terror, but a creature of love and joy, and so intrinsic is Angel's nature that he can find dear even a creature as vile as the Tormentor. And perhaps a kind hand can turn aside cruelty, or at least lessen it, for since Angel has become a recurrent presence in the world, the Tormentor's temper has seemed less livid. He remains cruel, but seems less capricious. 

He has taken, only this morning, three of our brethren. They were handsome and virile, proud and rightly so, but they became too fearless. They had bloomed, and they had bloomed beautifully. Thick buds had unfurled into bright, sweetly passionate petals, sending out a heady drift of pollen when the flowing air passed over them. I felt urges of my own, seeing them so bravely blooming, but I have never been courageous enough to rebel myself. I sat in my pot and grew only as I had been commanded, and with no small amount of awe I observed those audacious few, their fragrant blooms glorious and sensuous and provocative. Too provocative for the Tormentor, who had ranted and raved when he'd caught sight of them, going on about the perils of blooming "out of season" and "defying the plan" he held for them, describing how taking unwanted initiative would only lead to being "dealt with" until even the bravest and most bolstered had quaked outright. Then the Tormentor had taken the condemned away, tugging them out of place so violently that he'd left trails of soil in his wake as he'd stormed off. Soon even that had disappeared, leaving only terrified silence and the sweet scent of their rebellion to mark that they had once had a presence.

What has become of them I do not know. I will not heed the speculation of the others.

I have not heard the sound of the disposal unit. The Tormentor has not sent them through what he assures us is a portal to a fate worse than eternal damnation. I know in my roots that this is the day, this is the catalyst that will convince Angel to save us. The Tormentor has never tried to conceal his works; Angel will see what befalls us for our perceived misdeeds; he will understand how unrighteous our situation is and free us from this treatment. He is too good a being to abide by this.

It has already begun, or so I believe. Angel is here, the heatless warmth he carries with him pervading the world, and he has Had Words with the Tormentor, or the Tormentor has Had Words with him. They are not like the threats he spews at us, but the thread of accusation was in his tone as they conversed outside the boundary of our land. I heard the Tormentor say "blooming", I'm sure of it, "rebelling" and "coddling" and "fault" too.

Angel had called the Tormentor "dear" again, and said something about having an "idea" that would "teach" a "lesson." He'd said "You'll like it," too, I remember it clearly and I'm sure I heard it true, the current of his voice carrying just as their steps pulled them too far away for my senses to reach.

Angel will save us; this last act of cruelty toward us must have convinced him that the Tormentor must be taught to care for us kindly. 

The others agree with my assessment, some more readily and some less so, but all of us anticipate something good coming from this.

Our anticipation is bearing fruit. The Tormentor has appeared before us, but he does not seem to mean us harm in this moment. The cruel one pulls something like a blanket into reality and lays it out on the ground, then frowns and makes a displeased sound at it, but rather than ripping it apart he snaps with his frightful fingers and it transforms into something plusher. Then he snaps again and it becomes thicker still. He leaves and returns with a covered basket, then again with glass tubes, thin and wide by parts, and what seem to be dishes. He places them and then replaces them with as much care as he uses to determine our positions; I do not understand the ritual, but given his absorption it certainly must be important enough to determine the difference between life and death. Then he turns to us.

"Don't try to interfere," he says, his tone quieter than the manner in which he usually addresses us, but no less serious for it. "You don't deserve second chances," he reminds us in a low snarl, and whatever we may deserve, we know what we'll receive. 

He leaves us then, terror only slightly alleviated by the faith we have that our saviour will make his move. We wait, and we wait, and then it begins.

The Tormentor guides Angel before us, one of his horrible hands at the small of Angel's back – how such a pure creature can stand the touch, I'll never know. They are clothed strangely, each wrapped in what may as well be a single piece of fabric, loose and flowing smoothly over their bodies rather than splitting at the bottom to conform to their strange shapes as their usual tighter coverings do.

Angel gasps when he sees what the Tormentor has lain out for them. His body leans toward the Tormentor's, as though the beast were the sun.

"Oh, my dear, how lovely!"

"You haven't even seen the food yet," the Tormentor dismisses him, walking him over to the blanket and showing him where to sit.

"Only the best, I trust," Angel says, directing his wide-eyed gaze and gentle smile at the Tormentor as the wretch settles beside him.

"Of course. _I'd_ hate to disappoint," he says shifting toward a tone we have a more than passing familiarity with. His voice is as gentle as a breeze though when he continues, "We'll start with appetizers, hmm? Put just enough in you to help you relax, then we'll see about getting you properly satiated."

"Really, my dear," Angel says, his face pinkening. He lifts the lid and peers into the basket. "I'm sure you'll fill me with as much as I can take. You're always so skilled at meeting my appetites."

The Tormentor reddens himself, making a strange noise as he twists to help Angel open the basket. "Try these," he says, shoving something at his companion with none of the care he'd taken in laying the scene out, "and, er," he twists further to grab a bottle, opening it with ease and pouring out something that's certainly not water.

Angel makes a delighted sound over the packet he's had thrust at him, then another when the Tormentor hands him a glass. "Ooh, I was only just thinking of these yesterday. How did you know?"

The Tormentor makes a dismissive gesture. "You might have mentioned. I know you like them."

"They're just the thing." Angel opens the packet, then picks up a small metal rod, spearing something white, small, and mostly round. He brings it slowly to his mouth, and makes an even more enthusiastic sound as his lips close over the morsel. The Tormentor watches him with as much focus as he's ever directed at us in his search for leaf spots.

Whatever fault the Tormentor is searching for, he mustn't find it. Angel finishes his moan, his neck bobbing as he consumes what the Tormentor had provided for him.

"Perfectly done." Angel spears another. "You must try one." He holds it out to the Tormentor, who spurns the offering, turning instead to his drink. 

"You eat it. We'll both enjoy that more."

Angel turns pinker, and with a soft smile he brings the offering back to his own lips. His eyes flutter as he traps the pale morsel in his mouth, moaning even more exaggeratedly than he had for the last.

The Tormentor leans forward in his examination this time, intent and predacious, but again Angel passes whatever test has been put before him without fault. We relax, slightly, Angel is not like us; Angel is a step ahead of the Tormentor, ready to pass any test the creature throws at him, able to outwit his attempts to make sport of finding fault. Angel will be fine, and Angel will be able to keep us safe as well.

Angel takes a sip of his own drink before placing it far off to the side, then lifts one of the morsels from the packet with his fingers before setting it and the metal aside too. He brings the morsel to his lips, placing it not entirely in his mouth before closing them, and stares at the Tormentor as he darts his tongue out, first to catch the drip of yellow making its slow way out from what remains between his fingers, then to curve around that remnant and pull it into his mouth.

"You should know better than to tempt a demon," the Tormentor warns, setting his drink to the side and shifting closer to his companion. 

"Should I?" Angel asks with a slight wiggle, "But what's the worst that could happen?"

The Tormentor grins at him. It's not quite the same look he wears when he's decided to remove one of our number, but it's not far off, full of cruel intent and sadistic amusement. 

"Any number of things could happen to a careless angel caught with their guard down. _This_ garden isn't as safe as some of the others you've known."

"Oh?" Angel asks, his innocent eyes wide and guileless. I don't imagine any of us know what the Tormentor is planning, but we, at least, can tell that it's nothing good. Angel, the poor thing, clearly has no such suspicions, and despite the calm I have resolved to feel, the trust I have decided to place in Angel's wisdom, tension twists through my leaves.

"I'll show you," the Tormentor promises, and even with the edge of malevolent mirth flowing through his voice, Angel simply sits still and lets him close the space between them.

The Tormentor brings his face nearer and nearer to Angel's, who bears his presence with admirable stoicism, and presses their lips together. We've just witnessed that this is how their kind consume things, and for a moment I entertain the concern that the Tormentor will open his lips, spread his jaws wide and do away with Angel right in front of us, but of course he doesn't. Angel holds his own with determination, and when, after a moment, they break apart, the loving creature whispers, "Well, that wasn't so bad."

"Wasn't it? But there's more." He leans back in, and this time, when their mouths touch, he does open his. It takes Angel a startled moment to respond, but he catches on to the Tormentor's game soon enough, and by the third press of lips Angel's mouth is open too, pressing back against the Tormentor's, not letting him win.

"Oh, that's-" Angel starts when the Tormentor lets their contact break again, but the Tormentor won't even let him finish, diving down to place his lips over Angel's throat, driving a shocked gasp from his victim. 

Angel's hands come up to clutch at the Tormentor as he's pressed down to his back, but the vile creature doesn't allow it. He grabs Angel's wrists and holds them together, and with a sharp sound there's suddenly something wrapped around them. Angel makes another startled noise, but the Tormentor only laughs his cruel laugh and tells him to, "Just give in, Angel, do as I say. No good will come from fighting back; that never ends the way you'd hope."

What parts of me aren't consumed with terror for Angel are filled with fear that this statement is true; when has rebellion, when has even the slightest resistance to the Tormentor's demands, ever gone well for anyone? It is not a lesson I want Angel to learn.

"Oh, oh my!" Angel calls out, "What could you possibly be doing?"

"You'll figure it out. Clever little angel like you. Thought you could swan around in my territory giving my plants affection, did you?"

"Jealous?" Angel asks, unbroken, a mocking challenge in his voice even here, as dire as his situation seems.

The Tormentor leans his mouth down to Angel's chest, laid bare between the folds of the fabric that covers him, and makes a truly hideous, shocking noise. Angel shrieks and writhes under him. It sounds like air pressed with force between too little space, and it must be excruciating; Angel forgets his dignity and tries to buck away.

"Thought that would end well, did you?"

Angel almost laughs in relief as the Tormentor pulls away. "Yes, alright, I'm very sorry."

"Not yet," the Tormentor assures him. 

I am not alone in my quailing. It is not only my leaves shivering in horror at what we are being forced to witness.

Angel is strong. Angel can pull through. The Tormentor will do his worst, he always does, but surely Angel won't be overcome by agony.

The Tormentor slips into the gap between Angel's bound wrists and his chest. He taunts Angel, darting forward to bring their lips together again, showing that he can move more quickly than the poor thing can react, can do and take what he wants and be out of range before Angel can formulate a counterattack. 

"Oh no, I don't- I can't imagine what you intend to do with me now that you have me in your power!" Angel shivers under the Tormentor, seeming now to see the depth of his dilemma.

The Tormentor huffs and drops his head, not with the shame he should feel for putting such a lovely being through such distress, nor in the fearful submission he should be, would be, subjected to himself if there were any true justice in the world, but with a small grin that he maintains as he watches his hand move up to the top of the fabric that lies over Angel's chest and, with a nail sharp enough to split foliage, slits it open. Angel gasps as he tugs on the tear, ripping it further to bare skin.

"Oh, my word!" He cries, "You fiend!"

He writhes again as the Tormentor tastes his bared flesh, but none of his bucking manages to throw the brute off until he's good and ready.

"Sssettle down." The Tormentor pulls his body out from between Angel's arms and leans away. "I could make this good for you. Very pleasant. If I wanted."

"I... have no idea what you mean." Angel's voice quavers. He's right to be unsure, I have no doubt. Making anything pleasant certainly doesn't come naturally to the Tormentor. 

"Of course you don't. You've spent too long with Heaven. No one up there knew how to handle you, did they? Not properly. You haven't been getting what you need at all."

"Haven't I?" There's something like a challenge hidden in the ingenuous tone, I'm sure of it. Angel hasn't given in; I see that this is the example he is choosing to set for us, that working counter to the Tormentor's desires need not be done overtly; he may be defied in even the smallest of ways and there is joy in that.

"They left you all alone down here in this sweet, carnal corporation, with nothing but the beasts and the humans and me. They should have known better if they wanted to keep you."

"Oh, there are some lovely plants around too," Angel says, before breaking off in a gasp. The Tormentor has reached down to touch the end of one of Angel's longest limbs, drawing his touch back and forth over where it joins the rest of him.

"These plants are passable at best. Your standards are horrifically low."

"Are they?" Angel asks, lips drawing back into something closer to a smile.

"For plants! They don't compare to what was in Eden."

Angel hums for a moment. "If you could have one thing from the garden now, what would it be?"

"Oh, that one Banksia variant, no contest. I haven't seen better foliage since."

"Oh!" Angel cries, and rips his limb from the Tormentor's grasp. 

He's not free for a moment before the fiend has grabbed it again and pulled it high.

"But if there were two things..." The Tormentor touches his mouth to the limb quickly, then grins. "There was also a second Banksia variant-"

"You're not nearly as winsome as you think you are."

"Then you'll have to do for the both of us."

The Tormentor moves his mouth up to the bend in the limb, "Besides, I have some redeeming qualities."

"You'll have to describe them."

"Effortlessly stylish, incredibly handsome. I'm able to find perfect quail eggs on very short notice." He moves his touch up over Angel's skin; the poor thing is shivering, but no longer trying to pull away. "And there are other skills. I don't mind showing you."

"Oh, but I... I don't know if they'd approve of that, upstairs."

"You don't belong to them anymore. It doesn't matter what they'd think of this."

"It doesn't," Angel echoes, tone less light but more breathless than when he'd last spoken.

"I remember how comforting it could be, all their rules and regulations, even the stupid ones, telling you what was right, giving you all that holy certainty. It's alright to miss that."

"You didn't."

"I did. Way, way back. Wouldn't have bothered asking any inconvenient questions if I hadn't."

Angel seems to think about this for a moment; they're both very still, at least.

"But the only question you need to worry about right now is what I'm going to do with you."

"Oh, oh yes! You beast! Unhand me at once!"

"Angel, you were made to be handled. What did you think you were doing, wandering around here, flaunting yourself in that neckline? Hoping someone would come and claim you? Give you a place and put you in it?"

"You're the one who ruined my robe."

"Even I'm not immune to temptation. Not when the fruit's so ripe."

The Tormentor cruelly squeezes at Angel's flesh, reddening the area and clearly enjoying Angel's yelp before letting the limb drop to the side and moving his touch higher.

Angel squirms to escape, but it's no good. His efforts only seem to help the Tormentor push that white fabric further up his body, over the curve of where it splits into the two long limbs and, apparently, a third smaller one that appears terribly vulnerable. Angel gasps and keens as the Tormentor closes his hand around it, and his moan of agony when the Tormentor starts moving his grip slowly along it is unlike anything I've ever heard.

The limb has something of the look of a pistil about it, though the form isn't quite as dignified and looks far less practical. Surely ours are more resistant; my leaves twitch in sympathy for such a delicate creature as Angel being subjected to this far too harsh treatment. 

"I take care of my things, if they behave. It wouldn't be so bad, being mine." The Tormentor doesn't stop moving his hand over Angel as he speaks. He's too much of a brute to allow Angel even a moment's peace to gather his wits.

Angel looks away, face somehow flushing an even more vibrant pink. "Not bad at all," he whispers just loud enough for his concession to carry.

"Then do as I command." The Tormentor grins and leans back again. "Blessed are those who hear my word and obey it."

Angel's head snaps up to meet the Tormentor's gaze. "Really? Must you?"

The Tormentor reaches out, placing his hands at the base of the tear he'd made to Angel's meager covering.

"Have confidence in your leaders and submit to their authority," he commands, tugging again at the fabric, elongating the rip until it runs the length of the cloth, splitting the entirety of the covering open to fall to Angel's sides. "Do this so that their work will be a joy, not a burden, for that would be of no benefit to you."

"I was never certain about that one."

"I suppose it depends on the leaders."

Angel makes a considering noise as the Tormentor stares down at him. He is so bared and vulnerable like this, displayed before us all, as though he has been ripped from his pot, roots held aloft to dangle, shaken free from soil in a cruel grip.

That cruel grip descends upon him again, wraps around that most vulnerable limb as Angel's pained breaths hang heavy in the air. The Tormentor darts forward and pulls back again and again, impressing upon us all how vulnerable Angel's position is as he presses his violent mouth wherever he wants.

"If ye will obey my voice indeed, and keep my covenant, then ye shall be a peculiar treasure unto me above all," the Tormentor declares, ceasing his darting movements but offering Angel no solace from his touch.

"Oh, am I to be sanctified?" Angel's voice is strained, but even so, his strength in the face of this suffering is inspiring. Even now he is anticipating the Tormentor's cruelties, letting the beast know that his vile games aren't capable of stupefying him.

"Anointed, at least." The Tormentor brings his other hand down between Angel's long limbs, below the fragile one, and motions as though rubbing into him.

"Oh!" Angel gasps, "Oh, you do take good care of me."

"Walk in obedience to my commands and you will be rewarded fully," the Tormentor coos, open mockery in his voice.

"For all of this, I had better be."

Angel grunts and shifts under the Tormentor's hands. I am not positioned to see the details of what the Tormentor is doing to him, but the trembling of my comrades placed elsewhere does more than enough to assure me of its horror.

The Tormentor satisfies himself with Angel's discomfort and moves his hands away. "Silly little angel wandered right into my clutches." He moves his hands over Angel's body as he continues, as proprietary as he would be in a search for loose leaves, "And now you're mine."

"Oh, what a fate!" Angel cries.

"What a fate," the Tormentor mocks Angel's anguish. "Didn't you expect me to take you for my own?"

"I never could have imagined it!"

The Tormentor snorts a laugh, depraved villain that he is. Of course he finds it funny, that Angel misplaced his trust so dreadfully in him. Of course he's enjoying it, the opportunity to ruin the darling creature's faith in the goodness of others, to place his hands on the poor thing and draw out these sounds of suffering. The Tormentor is worse, more vile and reprehensible than any of us could have known. He is, unfortunately, more dangerous and powerful as well.

"Then you're not gonna believe what comes next." He stares down at Angel and speaks through the cruel smirk that's made a home on his face, "I'm going to do what I like with you, and if you're sweet and pliant, I'll make sure you enjoy it." The smirk twists and widens. "I'll even let you call me Master, if you work very hard to please me."

Angel gives something like a hiccup as the Tormentor pulls him closer, spreading his lower body over the Tormentor's.

"Then I have no choice but to do as my Dark Master commands."

"Dark Master, is it? You'll have to be _very_ pleasing to get away with that."

"I think I can manage."

"Obedience comes naturally to you, does it?"

"As naturally as patience." Angel shifts in the Tormentor's hold, but he's not foolhardy enough to truly try to break free.

"Well then, your Dark Master commands you to relax."

The Tormentor shifts his own body forward as he pulls Angel even closer, doing something that keeps his hand out of sight between them. Whatever he's done pushes a long exhale of out of Angel, followed by a gasp. I can't see the specifics and I'm glad of it, the horrified shivering of the leaves of those closest is pronounced enough that some might vibrate their pots to the floor.

"A promising start," the Tormentor says, pushing their bodies even closer together, then drawing back for a moment to repeat the movement. He fiddles with his own covering, bringing his hands up to throw the excess length of it over his shoulder. It reveals more of their strange forms to us. The Tormentor has a similar shape to Angel's, perhaps a similar pistil-like limb as well, but it remains mostly concealed. He has pressed his own limb against and, I believe, into Angel's body, though it might simply be out of sight under it. This isn't any form of torture I have any recollection of him imparting on any of us, and those around me seem just as confused, if equally horrified. Even so, it's clearly effective against a form like Angel's; the moans that accompany his breaths take on a more desperate air, and he can't restrain himself from shifting his hips, revealing how unbearable this act is for him.

"Tell me what you're feeling," the Tormentor demands, not content to see the anguish he's imparting, but forcing Angel narrate his suffering as well. 

"Full. Finally full. Filled by you. You feel- it's so much."

"You look like you're enjoying it." The Tormentor runs an open hand threateningly over Angel's far too responsive limb again. Angel gasps, and bucks out of time to the thrusts the Tormentor's hips are forcing upon him.

"I want you to touch yourself. Right here," the Tormentor wraps his hand around Angel's sensitive limb again, pulls his grip from base to tip and back, "like this."

Angel has had the resistance bullied out of him; though his wrists are still bound, he has enough movement in his hands to curl them around himself in a mimicry of the Tormentor's touch.

"Look at that!" The Tormentor crows, voice pitched to carry, making sure that all of us hear his assessment. "So quick to do as I said. Well done."

"I can hardly defy my Dark Master's desires," Angel replies, that thread of amusement that was once so frequent in his voice pushing through even here at the height of his subjugation.

The Tormentor huffs, so overcome by his sadistic pleasure that he stutters in his thrusts. "You'd do well to remember that."

"You'll make sure I do." Angel shifts to press their bodies even closer together. Perhaps he intends to alleviate some of the pressure from the Tormentor's movements, but instead both of them gasp. Perhaps in his effort to hurt Angel, the Tormentor has brought harm to himself. The thought straightens my leaves.

"Yesss," the Tormentor hisses, "like that." He subjects Angel to more of his thrusts before adding, "You're mine now." He runs his touch over Angel's limbs and his chest, claiming each part of him with, "This is mine," then pushes Angel's hands aside and wraps his own back around him, "and this is mine too."

Angel nods, shifting his head up and down as well as he can in his position, the fight fled from him entirely.

"You're mine, and I'm never letting them take you back."

"I'm yours," Angel agrees aloud. He lifts his arms, and the Tormentor twists to fit himself between them.

"You're mine. You're mine. You're mine," the Tormentor chants. It must be some arcane rite, some eldritch binding, for as he does it Angel wraps each of his limbs around him as close as he can and repeats, "I'm yours."

The pace of their movement shifts again, and within moments Angel's cries ring out, sounding more broken than any before. The Tormentor's hips falter in their movement, and he gives a low groan as well, clearly moved to pleasure by seeing Angel so completely conquered. 

I cannot clearly see what has happened myself, the fabric covering the Tormentor has fallen forward again, but after a moment of stillness they pull apart.

The Tormentor runs his hands over Angel's sides, and lower, out of sight, and then he snaps, and the tie around Angel's wrists disappears. 

"These are definitely mine." The Tormentor takes Angel's hands in his and brings each wrist up to his mouth for a claiming press of lips. 

"Most certainly, my dear," Angel says meekly.

The Tormentor moves again, bringing their lips together, testing Angel's submission and seeming to find no fault. "I'm pleased," he confirms, moving back again. "Sit up, I have something for you."

"You spoil me," Angel says with a soft smile.

"I do," the Tormentor affirms, "but you're far more satisfactory than any of these useless failures of vegetation." He turns to glare at us as he speaks before bringing his attention to the basket he'd set up earlier.

Angel wiggles as he sits up, appearing to have some tenderness where he'd taken the brunt of the Tormentor's thrusts. Guilt floods me. Whenever he's seen the Tormentor behave unkindly toward us he's offered soft words and provided compassionate encouragement. We, in turn, had observed his mistreatment at those hateful hands with nothing but susurrations, frightened and incapable of offering any sort of consolation. 

My guilt turns to horror as the Tormentor removes something from the basket. That- this is why we are not insubordinate, this is what comes to those who attract the Tormentor's ire.

The Tormentor holds in his hands the mutilations of a plant, twisted together into some sort of arcane sigil. This is no propagating cutting; this is butchery to be left to wither and die and provide an example to those unfortunate enough to be in its presence. This is a message. These are the blooms that once adorned those brave few of us that came to his attention this morning.

"Made it with my own two hands," the Tormentor says, looking us over before turning the entirety of his attention back to Angel. 

He wraps the macabre construction around Angel's neck. "I thought you'd look good in a collar. It'll help them understand that you're mine." His sharp nail traces just under where the gruesome design rests over Angel's throat, and Angel seems to understand the threat in the gesture; his eyes widen as his mouth forms a soft "Oh."

"It's lovely," he whispers, appeasing the Tormentor with deferential fawning. The Tormentor makes no further move against him, turning instead back to the basket.

Angel draws his hand up, running it over the grim reminder of his loss of freedom. Pistil and stamen still jut from their bases amidst the most beautiful of petals. Pollen still falls with his movement, settling on Angel's skin. 

The horrible tableau is only completed when the Tormentor withdraws a second ghastly structure from the basket, blooms and stems twisted into a grisly circlet, and crowns himself with it. With every move of his head, the sweet scent of our fallen compatriots' flowers flows through the air.

I am too shaken for even my leaves to shiver. This monster, this depraved malefactor, will adorn even himself in parts of us to mock our anguish and to disrespect those he's taken from us. My fury is greater than all but my terror. He moves his head again, sending a fresh waft of scent over me, and I know that I am being intimidated into inaction. I hate myself for it almost as much as I hate him.

"How very handsome," Angel flatters as the Tormentor drags his stare over the lot of us, his knowing, abhorrent gaze promising us no sweeter a fate if we were to act as incautiously as those audacious rebels had. 

"And this?" Angel asks, drawing the Tormentor's attention firmly to himself as he pulls at the scraps of his covering. "Will you make this lovely again too?"

"Oh no, that is how I've chosen to display you, and you'll stay like that until I decide to change it."

Angel drops his gaze. "If it pleases my Dark Master."

The Tormentor barks a laugh, rejoicing in poor Angel's servility. "It does."

Angel looks back up at him, not with the challenge of a direct stare but out of the corners of his eyes. "Then it pleases me. As they say," Angel shifts to acknowledge us, looking out over our foliage as he speaks, "One must obey one's master in everything, and do so not only when their eye is upon you and to curry their favour, but with sincerity of heart."

"Oh, I am pleased." The Tormentor chuckles, and it might be true. Certainly he's never looked at any of us the way he's looking at Angel now. I do not envy Angel for it; I do not want to imagine the depths of wretchedness he is bound to experience due to the Tormentor's fixation on him. I do not suppose it matters if the beast is even capable of fondness; I would not wish him to impose his attentions on even the most unpleasant of beings.

I am not sure whether Angel now wholeheartedly believes the words he has spoken, or whether he is simply telling us to protect ourselves, to make the Tormentor believe that we are doing our best now that he can no longer help us escape his wrath. I am not sure whether it truly matters, or which option would be less lamentable for poor Angel.

The Tormentor grips Angel close again, pressing their mouths together, perhaps simply to show us that he can. The sight is accompanied by another waft of scent from those he has mangled, and I wish for nothing more than the ability to shut it all out, to dull my senses and observe nothing more.

The Tormentor pulls away from Angel just enough to reach the packet of morsels Angel had so innocently been enjoying before his devastation. He extracts one with his fingers, and presses it between Angel's lips himself. The ill-fated darling takes it, as he is bound to take all the Tormentor will push upon him now, and gives only the smallest sigh of a moan as the Tormentor's fingers leave his lips.

"There's more," the Tormentor promises, threat in his words rather than his tone. He turns from Angel to pull something else from the basket as he continues, "You'll need to keep your strength up for what comes next."

Angel reaches up to touch the flower that rests against his throat, and he smiles, a soft, sweet thing that the Tormentor isn't even watching for. I know now that there will be no revolution, that Angel was not able to save us, and will not have the power to save himself, let alone speak for us in future. I know that our aspirations for a better world have only caused harm. It was our misbehaviour that inspired the Tormentor to take Angel like this, to claim him and break him in front of us; we are responsible for how he has been twisted and hurt. We are responsible for the cord of gore that adorns him. We must set our dreams aside, let them go like fallen leaves. We must accept that this is our existence, and we must do our best to thrive as we are commanded, for perhaps if the Tormentor is better pleased with all of us, his torment of Angel will be less sadistic. It is our responsibility now to do what we can to prevent the Tormentor from exulting in Angel's suffering, as he once did for us. 

This is not our day; this is not the time. Already I can see there is only one path forward: our hopes for rebellion must wither on the vine.


End file.
